The Heart of the Dales by Gervase Phinn

stone barn of a building with its sagging roof, old-fashioned kitchen and cold damp rooms, but, standing in the overgrown garden, we had fallen hopelessly in love with the magnificent views. We had stood on the tussocky lawn with its bare patches and mole hills, surrounded by waist-high weeds, tangled brambles and rampant rose bushes, and gazed across a panorama of green undulating fields criss-crossed with silvered limestone walls that rose to the craggy fell-tops, and we had marvelled. We knew we could transform this old cottage into our dream home.
    Our ‘dream home’, in fact, turned out to be something of a house of horrors. We soon discovered that we had an expanding family of woodworm in the quaint beams, persistent dry rot in the cosy little sitting room and rising damp in the dining room, cracked walls in the bedrooms, a leaking roof and broken guttering and nearly every conceivable problem that could face the home-owner. But we had been optimistic and cheerful and now, after nearly two years, we were getting somewhere. Having spent most of our spare time renovating and repairing, refurbishing and decorating, Peewit Cottage was beginning to take shape.
    There was a rap on the side of the car, which made me jump. Outside, peering through the car window, was a wide-boned, weathered face I immediately recognised. It was our nearest neighbour, Harry Cotton, a man whose long beak of a nose was invariably poking in everyone else’s business. Harry was a man of strong opinions, most of which were usually complaints, pieces of unwanted advice and unhelpful observations. He was the world’s greatest prophet of doom and the incarnation of the good old Yorkshire motto:
    â€™Ear all, see all, say nowt;
    Eayt up, sup all, pay nowt;
    An’ if ever tha does owt fer nowt,
    Do it for thissen!
    I wound down the window. ‘Hello, Harry,’ I said wearily.
    â€˜I thowt it were thee,’ he said, scratching the impressive shock of white hair.
    â€˜How are you?’ I asked.
    â€˜Nobbut middlin’,’ he replied. ‘I were badly last week. ’Appen summat I’d etten. I ’ad tripe an’ onions an’ I reckon it dint agree wi’ me. Any road, what’s tha doin’ out ’ere, sittin’ in t’darkby thissen?’
    â€˜Just thinking,’ I told him.
    â€˜I thowt tha were deead or summat, just sittin’ theer. I was tekkin’ Buster out for ’is constitutional an’ I saw thee.’ Buster was Harry’s wiry-haired Border terrier that now barked excitedly at the mention of his name, and jumped up at the door of the car. ‘Get down, Buster!’ ordered Harry. ‘Sit down!’ He turned his attention back to me. ‘I thowt for a minit that tha’d ’ad an ’eart attack or summat an’ were deead at t’wheel. ’As tha ’ad a bit of a barney wi’ t’missis, then?’ he asked. ‘Been kicked out, ’as tha?’
    â€˜No, no, nothing like that,’ I replied. ‘I’m just a bit tired after a long day and a lot of driving.’
    â€˜How long ’as tha been wed now then?’ he asked. ‘Is it two year?’
    â€˜Not quite,’ I said, reaching over to the back seat for my briefcase. The last thing I wanted at that moment was Harry Cotton and his potted philosophy.
    â€˜Aye, when t’honey moon’s ovver, first flush of living together wears off. I’ve seen it time an’ time ageean. Once a woman’s got that ring on ’er finger, things change and they don’t change for t’better. I’m glad I nivver got wed. Too much trouble. Tek my sister, Bertha.’ He chuckled. ‘I bet my brother-in-law would like somebody to tek her. Talkabaat bein’ under t’thumb. Soon as ’e walks in through t’dooer she’sat ’im to do this an’ do that an’ when ’e does do it, nowt ’e does is reight. Comes in